Page 113 of Dream Chaser
“I think I’m leaning more toward a farmstand? You know, sell to those with money; give to those who don’t have it?”
“You plan to do all twenty acres? That’s over forty-three thousand square feet. You’ll need six to ten full-time—five for planting, cultivating, and irrigation, one person to manage the greenhouse, a few people to harvest, a few to distribute.”
My mind starts racing.
“You and your mom, you’ve done what five or six people usually do for a program this large.”
Mom places a hand on his. “She goes a hundred miles an hour. You get to that speed and hit nitro, Jake. Iz got this.”
“No doubt she does.” He shrugs like it’s no big thing.
“I like the farmstand idea, giving to those who need help. Aunt Isobel, that’s what she wanted to do here.”
“You’ve always done that,” I remind her.
“In an unintentional way, yes, but this is bigger,” she says. “And we will handle it. Now tell me where you see the farmstand.”
“Skinner and the guys came down.” I pause, realizing what I just said. “Well, the girls kind of decided instead of girls’ night, they’d surprise me with a housewarming dinner. They bought Mags and me a grill. They cooked on it. Set it up in front of the carriage house, and he asked what we were going to do with it. Farmstand came up. Oddly, so did apartments or townhouses.” I look up from my phone app. “I said no to the apartments. We have enough on our plates.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Dad shrugs. “Love football, but it plays hell on winter projects.”
“I won’t be at Legacy Field as much if we do the fan merch at BVP. That’ll save ten hours if not more of nonsense work keeping that straight. Yet still, apartments are too much. For now, anyway.”
My phone alarm goes off, and I groan as I slide out of my seat.
“Where’s your next stop?”
“Meeting with some coaches to talk about who they feel is a good fit when we get that up and running.”
“Already?” Dad chuckles.
“I mean, yeah. An idea just sits there; you gotta make a plan and start putting it in action, right?”
Mom laughs. “I think I’ve heard that before.”
Dad stands. “You go do that. I’m going to head down and fix Wile’s third exit.”
“Sweet. Any chance you could make that go up one more? The rooftop is going to be amazing.”
Dad hip-checks me as he walks by. “You got your list; I got mine.” He looks back at Mom. “Need anything in town?”
She smiles at me then him. “I got everything I need right here.”
Skinner’s, I meanGriffon’s, story drops around six p.m. It’s a boomerang of his bare feet propped on the railing, a fire pit in front of him, the Gulf in the background. I freeze it on a single frame—he’s holding a drink in his left hand. His fingers, big, thick, strong … skilled.Gaw!
He wrote:Not a bad view.
No tag. No context. Which makes it worse. Because I know the damn view isn’t the only thing on his mind. Is there a girl on the beach?
And then I see something … on his wrist. Three bracelets that look suspiciously like mine.
I check my nightstand drawer, where I toss all my jewelry at night, and yep, the three wood-beaded bracelets I got the first time we went to Africa are gone. He posted to get me to cave, andI being the competitor I am, I wouldn’t even question taking that bait, but those are special. Not that he knows that, but still.
My fingers itch to message him that if he loses them, I will seriously kill him or injure him,because jail and Jesus.
So, my story is a blurry shot of the hoodie—his—on the hanger in my closet. I hope he reads into what I want him to—take care of them.
Mycaption:Could go feral. Will try not to.
